


In The Shadow of Your Heart

by run run whithertits (whithertits)



Series: Horn and Ivory [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, M/M, Prostitution, Raised Apart, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-26
Updated: 2011-09-26
Packaged: 2017-10-24 02:04:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 20,718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/257665
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whithertits/pseuds/run%20run%20whithertits
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Only one thing could ever make Mary walk away from her family-- but needs must, and the only way to keep them safe is to get gone. Dean finds himself alone in the world far too early, and survives the best he knows how. A raised-apart!AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Light in his eyes wakes Dean. He scrunches his face and turns away from it, but the light seems to follow him, warm on his cheek and too bright to be ignored. He blinks his eyes open slowly and squints around his room, the blue of his walls almost white from the bright light falling on them. Momma didn't close the curtains last night, so the sun's pouring in from outside, big and happy, and Dean thinks now is as good a time as any to get up.

He pushes himself up to his feet and gives the bars around his bed an annoyed look and tilts his head, listening for the sound of either of his parents. They don't like it when Dean climbs out of bed by himself, but Dean's _three and a half_ , he doesn't need help getting out of bed anymore. He sets his face into the same determined expression he's seen on both of his parents, and climbs up the bars of his crib.

Dean's _told_ his parents that he should be sleeping in a big boy bed, but all his insistence does is make them smile. He figured out how to climb out of his bed _ages_ ago, after all.

His window's open, and Dean can hear the bird that lives outside his window singing 'cause it's morning. Dean wants to sing, too, but he thinks he'd rather wake his parents up as a tiger instead of a bird. He opens his door real slow, so that it won't make a noise, and tiptoes— prowls, tigers _prowl_ — out of his room, down the hall to his Momma and Daddy's room. He jumps to the other side so they don't see him and then pokes his head through the crack of the door to see if they're awake.

The room is empty, and Dean blinks, because usually when he wakes up on his own that just means he beat his parents to getting up. He can't smell the usual morning-smells that mean his Momma or Daddy's in the kitchen, either. Dean lets his hands fall out of their claw shapes and puts them on his hips, huffing in annoyance. His parents should definitely have to tell him if they're going to be going someplace in the morning so Dean doesn't have to waste his tiger stalk on them.

His tummy grumbles, and Dean decides that even if his parents forgot to wake him up this morning they _definitely_ wouldn't forget to feed him, and perks up. He runs down the stairs as fast as he can, stomping loud like a T-Rex, and bursts into the kitchen with a roar.

Daddy's sitting at the kitchen table with his head cradled in his hands, pulled together like he's trying to hide. He doesn't react when Dean comes in, but his hand tightens on a piece of paper gripped in one hand.

"Morning, Daddy," Dean says timidly, not sure why his Daddy looks so— small. "Is it breakfast time?"

Daddy doesn't answer for a few long seconds, then rubs his hand over his face and looks at Dean. His eyes are red like he's been crying, which doesn't make sense because Daddy's all grown up and grownups don't _cry_ , crying's for babies. Dean almost never cries anymore. Dean steps closer and lays a hand on Daddy's knee. "Daddy?" he says again. "Are you okay?"

Daddy makes a sound like he stubbed his toe and his arms snap around Dean in a hug so tight Dean's lifted off the ground, onto his Daddy's lap. Dean squirms to escape, and when that doesn't work he wraps his own arms around his Daddy's neck. "Where's Momma?" Dean asks, because Daddy only gets funny like this when they've been fighting.

Daddy ducks his head down into Dean's neck and Dean can just make out the words he rasps out. "She's— she wouldn't have left you," he says. He doesn't answer any more of Dean's questions, and when he eventually lets go, Dean's arms are tender where Daddy hugged him too hard.

People come and go through the day, but Momma is never one of them.

Dean watches them, men who talk to Daddy and women who try to pet Dean's hair, which makes him scowl and duck away. His grandparents stop by, which makes him perk up because Momma never misses dinner when the whole family is here, but she still doesn't come home.

Dean sits himself down on the stairs facing the door and refuses to budge, because all these people in their house might scare Momma away when she comes back, so Dean wants to be the first thing she sees. Daddy moves between the living room and the kitchen like he can't decide where he wants to be, and Dean can hear him sometimes when he's talking to people.

"She left a note," Dean hears Daddy say from the living room, where he's talking to a police officer. "She left a note, but Mary, she was— she was happy, she wouldn't have left us." His voice breaks. "She wouldn't have left _Dean_ , not willingly."

The police officer says, gently, "The trouble the two of you've been having is no secret in this town, John. Few months ago, you were the one who walked out the door. If you want, we can fill out a report, but everything here points to Mary... well, to Mary leaving on her own." He quiets, and it hurts Dean's chest to breath, him talking that way like Momma won't come back. He remembers the weeks from last winter when Daddy left, remembers how sad Momma was. She wouldn't do that. She _wouldn't_.

"She might come back," the officer adds, and Dean can make out the quiet sound of Daddy crying.

Momma never comes back.

***

"Your dad's gonna get fired today," Jesse Thompson says.

Dean puts down his workbook and sends the other boy a dark look. "You're dumb," he says after a long moment of consideration.

Jesse scowls as the girls laugh, then smirks. "I'm not dumb. I heard my dad talking about it this morning— said he's gonna fire John Winchester 'cause he's 'drunk as a fish more often than not'." He throws his jaw out when he talks like his dad, so his jaw looks bigger than it is.

Dean dumps his paste down Jesse's short in arts and crafts and gets a time out, and figures that's the end of it.

He's gotten used to ignoring the other children, their parents so interested in his family that it trickles down to the next generation. He can't defend against the taunts that his face was so ugly not even his mom could love it, since for all he knows that's true, can't say a word when they talk about her slutting around town as though anyone's seen her since the night she walked out on him and his dad. His fists say all that needs to be said, and he gets in trouble for it at school, but his dad never says a word, just looks at Dean like he can't find the energy to reprimand him.

He does a good job of not thinking about it until he steps onto the bus home and every head swivels to look at him before they all duck down and start whispering. Dean scowls and sits down right behind the driver where he knows no one else will want to sit, and ignores the rustle of whispers that surround him.

When they get to his street, Dean jumps off and breaks into a run. The other kids get brave now that's he's left and call out after him through the bus's open windows, but Dean doesn't hear. If he runs fast enough, the sound of his feet slapping against the ground and his breath take up his whole world, and he can pretend they aren't saying anything at all. He likes running, so he runs hard and fast, even once the bus drives away.

Dean goes flat out, sneakers slapping wetly against the cement of the sidewalk, until he hits the edge of his driveway. Dad's car is there, all big and black and cool, and Dean perks up at the thought of his father being home from work early. It makes him nervous, considering what Jesse was saying, but he shoves the feeling down. Dad does come home early sometimes, even if it isn't regular. His dad works really hard to make sure they've got everything they need, and if he goes to the bar sometimes after work instead of coming home, so what? Dean's not so little he can't take care of making himself Spaghetti-Os, and Dad needs the time to relax.

Doesn't mean Dean isn't excited his Dad is home early, though. He's bouncing on his feet as he cuts across the grass to their front door. It's still locked, so Dean flips his backpack around to his front and digs around for his keys. The door opens on an empty house like usual, and Dean frowns at the feel of it. The walls are bare as ever, stripped of all photos three years ago and never replaced, but this is a feeling that goes beyond the minimalist decorating his dad said was his preference.

Dean stops by the kitchen and chugs a glass of water, smirking to himself when it makes him give a long, loud burp. He peeks out the kitchen window but doesn't see his dad in the backyard, doesn't hear him upstairs. He leaves his cup on the counter and turns his head toward the door to the garage.

It's the one part of the house Dean isn't supposed to go, since Dad keeps his power tools in there and says Dean isn't old enough to learn to use them, yet. Dean usually manages to keep his urge to sneak in under wraps, but his dad is _home_. Dean curls his hand around the doorknob, just below eye level, and can't help but hesitate. He thinks about what Jesse Thompson sang at him in class, and the shivery, unsure place down in his guts his mom left twists inside him, worried Jesse was right. He bites his lip and opens the door.

It opens quietly, the hinges kept well-oiled and soft. The garage is dark, no windows, lights off. The light from the kitchen follows Dean through the door, a long, bright rectangle broken by his shadow. The garage smells of stale air and the hard liquor Dad only drinks in the house after a bad day. He can see his dad's back, hunched over, just outside the reach of the light.

"Dad?" Dean says, but his words don't make it far, drowned out by a sudden explosion of sound that rips through the room. Wetness splatters on Dean's face, warm and shocking, and he freezes, like the sound short circuited the connection between his brain and his legs.

His eyes must have adjusted to the dark, because he can see in crystal clear detail as his dad leans sideways and falls to the ground, the back of his head broken open like an egg. His ears have gone deaf, but he sees every detail as his dad's body splays out over the ground in a growing puddle of dark. When it hits the shaft of light Dean's let in, the puddle is red.

Dean takes a deep breath, and screams. He can't hear it, so he keeps screaming. He doesn't stop for a long, long time.

***

The night is cold enough that, if Dean weren't working, he'd have his hands shoved into his armpits for warmth. But he is working, and he needs the cash if he's going to eat tomorrow, and the persistent weakness that dogs his steps is enough to let him know he'd better eat soon or else he's gonna have to sign over the last bits of pride he has and join up with Jimmy and his girls. He's talked to the girls a few times; they don't have much good to say about Jimmy, but they always have a roof over their heads and they get two square meals a day more often than not. Dean doesn't value his pride more than his life, but to keep both he's got to stand on the corner and look pretty even if he can't keep the shivers under control.

It's not a good night.

The girls have drifted away over the hours Dean's been standing here, some into cars and some back to the relative safety of doorways. Dean was the only one who came back out after the cop car took a crawl down the street, interrupting business and scarring away the Johns. Dean hasn't seen a car in almost twenty minutes, and it's been longer than that since one slowed down to look at him. Jimmy's house isn't even on this block, but Dean swears he can feel the man's eyes tracing down the small of his back. He casts a look over his shoulder, but the alley is still empty. He’s alone.

Dean moves back so he's standing against the wall instead of out in the open. No point leaving his back open if there's nobody there to look at it and pay for the pleasure. He presses himself against the dirty brick of the old building and watches a whole lot of nothing drive by. The wind blows hard, and Dean gives in and wraps his arms around himself to try to stay warm. His t-shirt’s thin and doesn’t do much of anything to keep him warm. If he sees a car he'll leave the wall behind and show off, but there's no point showing off to the cloudy sky. The stars aren't even out to look at him.

He stays on high alert as he waits, hunger twisting his insides to sickness as he waits for last call to spill a willing barfly his way, when the skin on the back of his neck stands straight up. Dean's always had good instincts, and he's seen for himself the monsters that hide in the dark, nodded along to the ramblings of a man who smelled of rotting potatoes that most people called crazy, 'cause he's seen the things that hide in the shadows, knows people aren't crazy just 'cause they see things that aren't supposed to be real in the dark. The corner he's chosen is bare, missing any sort of cover, and there's no way Dean's hiding in an alley if there's some kind of creeper hiding in the dark. You don't go down alleys to hide from them like you do from cops; Dean figures creepers like alleys best, 'cause they know there's maybe witnesses out in the open. Dean bends down and pulls his knife out of his boot and holds it close, keeps his eyes open. Bad feelings don't always mean something's after him; it just means something out there is hungry.

Dean keeps quiet and small against the wall, and between one flicker of the street light and the next, something’s out there in the street. It's a creeper alright, and an ugly one at that. It’s crawling on all fours, but its arms are too short for its legs, like it's a man that forgot to stand up straight. It's got the same long, pointless hair on its body as a pig, and it moves around the edge of the light like it thinks that'll keep it hidden. Dean's breathe hitches in his throat and he takes the opportunity to hold it; his heart might be loud enough for the monster to hear, might not, but his breath always sounds too loud in the dark.

The creeper's limping, a little, like a dog with a bad leg. Dean presses his back hard against the brick and wishes he had somewhere he could run back to for safety. Even Jimmy’s place has to be safer than this. Dean keeps his eyes open so long they start to water, the cold air harsh against his too-wide eyes, but he still misses it when the man stalks out of the dark.

The man looks like a cowboy. He's dressed like a dock worker, strong, cheap clothes, and he's got a gun clutched in one hand down by his side. His boots don't make any noise as he circles the creeper, but the thing notices him anyway. Its body coils up, ready to jump, and before Dean can shout a warning the man's gun is up and two shots explode out of it and hit the monster in the chest before it gets halfway to airborne. Dean's breath falls out of him with a gasp, and the man's gun is up and pointed at him before he can blink.

"Don't shoot," Dean gasps. He clears his throat and pushes away from the wall, knife poking into the small of his back. "I'm not a creeper, so don't— shoot." He steps away from the wall and holds his hands up so the man can see he's got nothing in 'em.

The man blinks and lowers the gun back down to his side. He's tall, and when he moves into the light Dean can see he's got blond hair, cropped close to his head like the army boys that come prowling through sometimes. "What the hell are you doing out here, kid?" he asks. He keeps his gun out instead of putting it away, and Dean can't help but respect that. This man doesn't know Dean from Adam, and Dean hasn't put his knife away, either.

"Minding my own business," Dean says, and he means it. He doesn't want no trouble, and he knows enough to know that, creeper-killer or no, men waving guns around this late at night are always trouble.

The man narrows his eyes and he rakes his eyes down Dean's body, and for a moment Dean thinks maybe he's found his meal ticket after all. "You hustling?" the man asks, and Dean can't tell if it's disbelief or disapproval that paints his voice.

Dean takes a risk and bites his lip so it swells, angles his hips and flexes his arms so his slender form is on full display. "I could be," he says, voice husky.

The man cringes at the words, and it just figures Dean was wrong. "You can't be eighteen," he says, like he wants Dean to prove him wrong.

Dean falls out of the angles that show him off and crosses his hands over his chest. "I am if anyone asks," he says, and he knows he sounds like a petulant teenager, but he can't help it. He can charge extra because he's so young, and more because he’ll say he’s eighteen when he’s two years shy of it.

The man rubs a hand over his face like Dean's words are a physical pain, and the gaze he turns on Dean is the same assessing look Dean's only seen on Johns' faces before. "You hungry?" he asks eventually, and Dean's stomach growls his agreement before he can claim lie. The man laughs, and holds his hand out for Dean to take.

Dean steps forward and slides his palm into the man's grip, where it's pumped once, firmly, before it's released. "My name's Bill Harvelle," he says, like Dean's someone worth a full name, a real name. "I'm a hunter." Bill's hand is warm, and Dean finds himself wishing, just for a second, that Bill weren't such a good man, because he's never that warm on his own.

"I'm Dean," he says, rubbing his chill hand over the leg of his jeans. He forces himself to stare at Bill instead of looking away. "A hunter— you hunt creepers?"

Bill smiles like Dean's said something charming, and nods. "All manner of creatures." His eyes sharpen all of a sudden, catch Dean's. "You see a lot of 'creepers' in your line of work?"

Dean shifts his weight from foot to foot. "People see all sorts of things on the street," he says non-committedly. Questions like that don't deserve an answer.

Bill studies him with kind, too-knowing eyes, and then sighs. "You're hungry," he declares firmly, like it's a call to action. "I haven't eaten since I started tracking that thing and I wouldn't mind some company." He says it like the offer it is, and Dean wants to take him at his word.

"Twenty bucks up front for my time," Dean says, because he needs the money, and the fish aren't biting but he doesn't trust easily.

Bill's eyes harden, and he straightens up so tall Dean realizes fully just how much bigger than him Bill is, and Dean's not a small guy, young as he is. "I'll feed you if you come with me," he says, "But I won't pay you. I've never paid for company in my life, and I ain't about to start now."

Dean doesn't back down for the long moment Bill holds his eye, but when the hunter sighs and turns away, Dean can't keep quiet. "Wait!" he says, and ducks his head down, blushing, when Bill looks back over his shoulder. "I'll come," he says. There's a feeling in his chest he barely recognizes, but when he realizes what it is— realizes it's the urge to be someone worthy of respect— he can't force himself to hide away from it. It's the exact opposite of swallowing his pride, and all the harder for how often Dean has done just that.

Bill takes him to a diner just two blocks away. They walk, though Bill stops by an old pickup truck on the way and unloads his gun, which Dean takes as an opportunity to put away his knife.

Dean doesn't know what to say, and Bill— well, who knows what's going on in Bill's head. "You got a light?" Dean asks, desperate to break the silence. The cigarette he pulls from his pocket is slightly squashed but intact, and he flips it between his fingers nervously.

Bill doesn't reply, just pulls out a silver zippo from his pocket. There's a symbol printed on the side, an overly decorated star in a circle. Dean lights up and hands it back, and the silence between them continues, but he can pretend it's not awkward as he sucks down the toxic smoke.

A bell on the door rings when they walk in and Bill nods to the waitress behind the counter like he knows her, then slides into a booth, taking the side that faces the door. Dean hunched his shoulders against the naked feeling of the door at his back and slides into the booth across from Bill, and keeps his eyes on the table when the waitress swings over, coffee pot already in hand. She pours them both a cup without asking and Bill nods his head in thanks. Dean can feel the heat of his gaze when she makes her way back toward the counter.

"You keep acting like that, people are gonna think I'm paying for more than your food," Bill says, and his eyes are sad when Dean meets them.

"'M not acting like anything," Dean mutters as he grabs a menu from the condiments box and pretends he isn't hiding behind it. Bill says nothing, just takes a long sip on his coffee and stares at Dean over the rim of his cup. It's only a few minutes before Dean lowers the menu and glares. "Look, what do you want from me? I'm just here for the free meal." His voice breaks at the end and he clears his throat in an attempt to distract from that fact.

Bill taps his fingers on the side of his mug and leans back so he's pressed against the back of the booth. For a long moment he says nothing and then he closes his eyes and breathes in deep, through his nose, then releases it in a puff from his mouth. He opens his eyes and says "I want to take you home with me."

All the muscles in Dean's body tense and he darts his eyes around the diner. Nothing's changed, he can still leave at a moment's notice, but Dean feels trapped and wants _out_. "You're fucked in the head if you think I'd do that," he says, voice tight through the invisible fist which has clenched down on his throat.

Bill smiles at that and ducks his head, but Dean sees the bashful smile on his face. "My wife says I've taken too many hits to the head to think straight." He laughs, lightly, but when he stops his attention focuses back on Dean, sharp as the blade of a knife. "We live in a hard world," he says. "You know that better than most, but there's more monsters lurking in the dark than your Johns. Your creepers— they're in every city, every state, _everywhere_. You come with me, you'll be living in my world. You'll be a hunter."

His words should be scary. They should make Dean want to make a break for it and get out before the crazy spreads and infects him, too. But Dean's seen for himself some of the things that lurk in dark alleys, but they're nowhere near as bad as some of the monsters that drive by on the road. "That doesn't tell me much," he settles on eventually.

Bill makes a small sound of agreement. "It's a hard life. But you'll be helping people, like I helped you. Saving them."

"Sounds too good to be true," Dean says, but even he can tell his voice is more considering than doubtful.

A slow smile crawls over Bill's face. "You won't be saying that for long," he promises.

"I haven't agreed yet," Dean says, but he smiles back at Bill helplessly, full to busting with the kind of hope only idiots feel. He doesn’t quite trust Bill, but what’s being offered sounds better than the nothing he has to go back to after this; he doesn’t even have enough money on him to cover their food, let alone to bribe himself into a bed.

"Course not," Bill replies placidly. He waves the waitress over. "But we both know you're going to."

He orders two plates of bacon and eggs, and somewhere between stealing Bill's toast and his cup of fruit, Dean proves him right.

***

Ellen takes Dean under his wing in a way that he's immediately suspicious of. She rests her hands on Dean's shoulders, but never for long enough to make him shrug her off. She cooks for him, but she never bakes— says she hasn't got the talent for it. The front of the Roadhouse smells of beer and hard bodies at night, but the part none but family gets to see always smells of old, good spices.

It sets Dean on edge. If it weren't for Jo, he'd probably have smuggled himself out in the back of a truck before even a month went by.

But Jo is there, all blonde hair and dark eyes, a shy little girl that smacks Dean in the face the first time he talks back to her Momma. She's the first of the Harvelles to offer him anything more than kind words and soft hands, and it loosens the tight, anxious place in his chest where Dean can't help but wait for the other shoe to drop.

Jo hitting him means they’re only human— means their offer of kindness isn't some ploy to make him let down his guard. They're just good, hardworking people that fight the monsters that haunt the dark.

Bill's gone more often than not, which Dean likes, 'cause it means he doesn't have to deal with yet another over-bearing wishes-he-were-my-father figure. He also hates it, because he _likes_ Bill, likes him like respect and the shameful knowledge that without him Dean'd probably be ass-up in an alley somewhere, half-starved and wasting his money on drugs.

It gives him a point of contact with Jo, that they both miss Bill when he's gone. Jo always throws a fit when he goes, and Dean gets to spend his attention calming her down instead of thinking about how Bill's probably never coming back.

Ellen's a kind, patient woman, who doesn't say a word about how much older than Jo Dean is when they're both learning to shoot a gun for the first time. She lets him gather up the tattered edges of a pride he thought long left behind. She doesn't say a thing when Dean freaks out the first shift he takes on the floor, the eyes of so many dark, hardened men sending shockwaves through Dean he thought he'd gotten over a long time ago. She just sticks him behind the bar and teaches him the difference between how to serve a man who asks for a beer and one who orders a shot and tells Dean to leave the bottle.

It's all a muddle of laws and don't-drink-no-not-even-if-they're-buyin

g, but when Dean turns eighteen she relaxes, and the tension is gone from her shoulders for the first time since Dean met her.

"I was worried you'd get picked up by some no-good do-gooder and taken away," she admits when Dean asks, and a shiver of unease works its way down his spine at the thought of just how easy it would have been for someone like Mr. Foster to get their hands on him again.

Bill's gone again, chasing after some spirit that needs chasing, the night one of the Campbell boys comes in.

He's a tall, blond shadow of a figure against the bright light of day outside, and for a heart stopping moment Dean thinks it might be Bill, back early and safe again. The man steps inside and the illusion shatters, the young features and the shifty eyes of a seasoned hunter nothing like Bill's.

None of the barflies notice and the hunters just give the new comer a cursory glance, but Ellen straightens up and puts her hand down behind the bar where she keeps her shotgun. Dean moves out from behind the bar without batting a lash and busses a table in front of the door to their home, two seconds and a roll away from being armed himself.

The new guy doesn't pay them any mind, just sits himself down on a barstool and taps two fingers on the counter and waits. Ellen stays in place long enough to make a point, then takes her hands out from under the counter and walks over.

"Whiskey," the man says, then knocks back the shot Ellen pours like it's water. Dean watches, unsure, as Ellen serves him another with hooded eyes and a smile so cold it makes Dean want to clean the kitchen and pacify the beast.

"What're you doing here, Christian?" she asks eventually, voice just adding to the tension. Her hand keeps drifting under the bar, like the cold feeling of wood and potential pain is a comfort.

The man—Christian— tips his shot glasses upside down on the bar. "A man can't just stop in for a drink?" he asks, and it's such an obviously lie Dean barely smothers his scoff.

"You Campbells don't turn up anywhere without a reason." Ellen fills up a fresh shot and thrusts it Christian's way. "Especially not alone."

"Even the best armies have scouts," Christian says, and sips his whiskey slow through his smirk.

Ellen's hand goes under the counter and stays there. "You trying to make a point?" Ellen says coldly, but there's an edge of fear under there, past the anger. Dean tucks his cloth into his back pocket and walks over to lean against the end of the bar, one step from arm's reach. He doesn't say anything but Christian rolls his head around, assessing Dean with a look that starts out cold and ends hot, unfortunately familiar.

"You serving more than just drinks, Ellen?" he asks as his eyes track down Dean's body again, and he shoots Dean a smirk before he turns away, right into the slap of Ellen's hand.

For just a moment the bar stops as all the hunters take notice, but Ellen's eyes scream a warning to mind her business like she minds theirs, and the soft background chatter begins again. Ellen nods, and presses her hands deliberately flat against the bar as she leans over it toward Christian. "You need to watch your mouth, Campbell. That's my son you're talking about." Ellen straightens and leans back against the counter behind the bar, message delivered. "You got something to say, you say it. Then you get out."

Christian's eyes flick toward Dean and then back to Ellen, guilt and puzzlement warring on his features before the same cocky smirk takes over his face. "No message," he says mildly. "We just wanted to touch base— see if you've heard anything we haven't."

Ellen snorts, but her shoulders loosen, business first as always. "Nothing any more out of the ordinary than usual," she says, and then bites her lip. "Bill's in Oklahoma right now, tracking down a haunt. You say hello to your Aunt from him, he'll be sad to have missed you."

Christian nods, eyes hooded, and digs an old leather wallet out of his pocket, puts a few bills down flat on the counter. "You know he and Mary have never—"

Ellen steps forward and slammed her hand down on the money. "I don’t much care to hear what Mary Campbell has ever done. I know what Bill’s done and what he hasn’t. Doesn't mean I have to like them being friends, though, does it?"

Christian nods, stands. "It was good seeing you, Ellen," he says, and tips an invisible hat at her.

Ellen closes her eyes and then reaches under the bar and pulls out a high ball glass. She fills it with water and hands it to Christian. "You're gonna be on the road, you'll need it. But you watch your mouth, hear me?"

Christian shoots another look at Dean and bobs his head in agreement. "I'm sorry," he says, facing Dean but eyes on Ellen.

Dean rolls his eyes and steps back out to the floor. "Whatever." He ignores the bar as he finishes his earlier round, and by the time he circles back to the bar Christian's stepped into the washroom. Ellen’s watching the floor with dark eyes, and Dean shoots her a little smile, knowing she’s always watching out for him.

"I don't like him coming here," Ellen says to Dean as he unloads his tray.

"Who is he?" Dean asks, voice pitched low to match her. Ellen says hunters are worse than old women when it comes to gossip, and Dean's taken that truth to heart.

"Christian Campbell. He's not so bad— none of the Campbells are bad people, really. They're a family of hunters, one of the oldest. But they don't do anything by halves, and they always move in groups. If they're sending people out as feelers, that means something's up."

Dean frowns at the door the men's room. "I don't like him," he says firmly, then looks at Ellen. "Who's the Mary Campbell he mentioned?"

Ellen snorts and reaches out a hand to smack the back of Dean's head. "She's one of Bill's hunting partners."

"And that's it," Dean says, absolutely sure. Bill's _good_ , and he doesn't like that some punk Campbell would even think to imply otherwise.

"'Course it is," Ellen says, but there's a thread of doubt in her voice.

Dean raised a hand and touches Ellen on the shoulder, awkward as ever at the casual intimacy Ellen seemed so fond of. "Bill loves you," he says. There's no doubt in his voice, and even less in his mind. He quirks his lips in a grin for her. "And he’s smart, and knows how good you are with a shotgun."

Ellen's smile goes all the way up to her eyes and she lays a hand gently over the one Dean has on her shoulder. "You're a good boy, Dean." Heat rushes to Dean's cheeks and he tries to draw his hand back, but Ellen just holds on tighter. "No, you listen to me. I meant what I said— you're my son, or good as. We might not have blood, but we've still got each other. You hear me?"

Dean clears his throat and blinks, wishing they weren't in the bar. "I know." He can’t tell her that they're the only real family he's ever had, but it's true. He’d kill to protect them; has learned to kill to protect them.

Ellen lets go of his hand and then touches Dean's cheek just once, under his eye, and wipes away the wetness there. "You go take your break," she says. Dean hates that his first thought is still that she doesn't want him around looking like a weakling in her bar, but at least he knows by now it's not true. She's protecting his pride, not her own. Dean doesn't remember his mother, but there's no way she was anywhere near as good as Ellen.

Dean ducks out the back door and takes a deep breath of the cold night air, winter so close he should probably be wearing a jacket. His hands itch for the pack of cigarettes he's got stashed out back, but he hasn't smoked in almost two months, and Ellen will smell it on him if he does. He leans against the wall of the Roadhouse and stares up at the stars and lets the calm seep in.

"What's your name?" a voice says from his left, and Dean spins, caught off guard. Christian is standing at the edge of the parking lot, staring into the shadow Dean's hidden himself in. His expression is all barely-banked curiosity, the strange hostility from inside completely gone.

Dean pushes himself off the wall but doesn't step any closer. Christian does, a slow hunter's glide. "Dean," he says shortly.

Christian falters, then stops with a good five feet of distance between them. He tilts his head at Dean, his eyes narrowing. "Dean Harvelle?"

Dean wants to say yes. Ellen would love it if he did, and Bill would probably burst with pride to hear Dean take his name. But Dean's no Harvelle, and he doesn't like lying to himself. "Dean Winchester.”

Even with the distance between them, Dean can see it when Christian's breath hitches and he swallows once, and his expression shifts, just enough that Dean can't tell what it means. "I'm sorry for what I said inside," he says, like the words have been forced out of him.

Dean waves it off. "Ellen already got you for that." The silence stretches between them. "You're a hunter?" he asks, to fill the silence.

Christian puffs up, and it makes him look young, and Dean realizes that Christian can't be that much older than him. "I'm a Campbell," he says, and his expression gets even stranger. "All the Campbells are hunters."

Dean rolls his eyes. "I just got back from my first hunt," he says. A non-violent haunting, and Bill didn't take him when he went for the bigger game in Oklahoma, but that'll change. Dean didn't grow up hunting, and maybe part of him is jealous, wishes he hadn't started on this game so late, but he's not about to talk about that.

Christian nods, turns his body away from Dean, out into the night. "Maybe I'll see you around," he offers, but it sounds insincere. The interest that Dean felt earlier is gone, and— that's for the best, really. Dean doesn't need some hot shot chasing after him, even if he's never met another hunter under thirty.

"Yeah," Dean says. Christian doesn't reply, just turns away and hops into one of the many trucks on the lot.

By the time Dean goes back inside, he stinks of tar and smoke.

***

In the fall of 1999, Bill leaves on a hunting trip. Dean doesn't think much of it when Bill tells him to stay home with Jo; she's hit the ground running on teenage angst when it comes to being left behind, and the only thing that keeps her quiet is if Dean has to stay home, too. Ellen doesn't like it either way; her whole family out on a hunt or Bill out on his own are not options that make for an easy sleep. This time, there's an edge to her insomnia that Dean can't help but notice, and when questioned, Ellen admits that Bill's on a hunt with the Campbell woman again.

Dean's no fan of the Campbells; in the years since his introduction to them, Bill's gone on two hunts in their company and come back with the gleam of near-fanaticism in his eyes and wrapped up in bandages. On his return he'd take Dean and Jo out behind the bar and teach them something new, be it a new way to make a hex bag or an improvement on the devil's trap. Jo sucks the information up like a sponge and peppers Bill with questions, but Bill just smiles and ruffles her hair; Dean’s a bit slower, bothered by the pained exhaustion edging into Bill's face.

"You're just like Mom," Jo says when Dean tells her about his concerns as he braids her hair. Dean's sitting on her bed, Jo cross-legged on the floor of front of him, both of them facing the full-length mirror on her wall. "All you do is worry— Dad's _fine_ , he's working with some of the best hunters in the world and getting better because of it. I've heard the talk: everyone wants to hunt with the Campbells, they're like celebrities."

Dean pulls the strands of hair tight against Jo's head, tightening the braid, ignoring her squawk at the brief pain. "I still don't like it."

Jo rolls her eyes at him in the mirror, the motion deliberately exaggerated. "You'll see."

She's changed her tune by the time a week goes by with no word.

Ellen gets quiet as the days go by with no word from Bill. Jo's turned into her ever present shadow in the bar, watchful and quiet, their usual quarrels forgotten. Dean's glad Jo's there; he can't bring himself to work in the bar, hope clogging his throat every time the door swings open. Instead, he spends most of his time out back with his gun, shooting bottles so he doesn't shoot himself. He knows this stillness, _knows it_ , deep in his bones where everyone he's ever loved used to be. Ellen doesn't comment on him skipping out on his shifts, because she recognizes the anger boiling Dean's blood would start more fights in the bar than their repair bill could afford.

After two weeks of silence, a letter arrives in the mail. Another fucking letter, and though this one bulges with something inside its sealed envelope, Dean doesn't need to read it to know what it says. He sticks around long enough to see the blood drain from Ellen's face, for Bill's lighter to clatter out onto the table, and then he runs out of the house and doesn't look back. Jo's high, clear voice chases him out, and the only word he can make out is "Daddy", but that's more than enough.

He goes out the back, through long empty fields, and only stops when he hits the line of old wooden barrels Bill used for Dean and Jo's target practice. They're the only feature around the Roadhouse in any direction, the rest kept deliberately bare in case of attack, and there's a burn in Dean's chest that has nothing to do with being out of breath and everything to do with having another piece of his heart ripped out. He sits down with his back against the rotting wood and tilts his head back. There's a thin layer of frost on the ground, the grass cool and crunchy beneath his weight. The sun is just edging beginning its creep across the sky, melting the frost, but Dean sits in the shadow cast by the barrel and breathes, reveling in the cold burn of the air, and tries not to think for a little while.

On one level, he expected this. The only time good things happen to Dean is when they’ve got a time limit, and this just proves that even if people don’t _want_ to leave him, they’ll do it anyway. Dean’s toxic.

He drifts, eyes unfocused, and it seems like between one blink and the next the sun has climbed high into the sky and there's the soft tread of someone coming up from behind him. At some point Dean's curled up, and he knows he should get up, just fucking stand up and face the truth, but he feels like he's been frozen in place, too stiff to move.

"Dean," Ellen's there, crouched beside him, one too-warm hand resting on his shoulder. "Come inside." Her voice is harsh, worn as ragged as Dean feels, and a wave of self-loathing washes through him. He's only known Bill for a handful of years, and here he is, running away when Ellen has lost her husband and Jo her father. Her strength puts him to shame, but he still can't make his limbs co-operate and stand.

"He's dead," someone says, and some part of Dean recognizes it as his own. "Isn't he?"

Ellen's breath hitches, and she falls to her knees beside him and pulls Dean into her breast, so his head is tucked in close against her neck. The touch of her skin burns where it's pressed against Dean's. "Come inside," she says again, and Dean closes his eyes again and pretends he's not crying. Ellen's trembling, so faintly he wouldn't notice if he weren't pressed up against her, and he wraps his hands around her waist and just— hangs on. Just for a minute.

Eventually he stops shaking, and Ellen runs a hand gently through the short hairs at the back of his neck and then stands, pulling Dean up with her. Dean's stiff and standing sends pain shooting through his joints. He blinks the last, clinging tears out of his eyes and hunches his shoulders, realizing suddenly that he isn't wearing a jacket. He sucks in a long breath and draws the tattered edges of himself together. "How's Jo?" he asks.

The skin around Ellen's eyes tighten, pain and worry aging her right before Dean's eyes. "Not good. She swears up and down she’s going to go after the Campbells."

It doesn't sound like such a bad idea to Dean. "What did the letter say?" he asks, and he can tell his tone worries Ellen.

"Not much," she admits, and she keeps her eyes on Dean as she turns them toward the house. "'Hurt on a hunt, couldn't save him.' Mary never was one to mince words."

Dean doesn't answer, just ducks his head and keeps walking. Anger churns in his guts like nausea, and his hands itch with the sudden urge to lash out and find someone to make them _pay_. He's got a half-formed plan rolling around in his head, him and Jo and the road to justice, but Ellen stops them just outside the door with a hand on his arm.

"Dean," she says, intent. "I want you to promise me you aren't going to do something stupid because of this." When Dean doesn't reply and makes a move for the door, Ellen grabs his arm and jerks him back, hard. He can feel his eyes widen at the hard look on his face. "I'm not kidding, Dean. We're hunters. There aren't enough of us to spread ourselves thin by infighting. I've seen more friends die than I like to think about, and the only thing you can do is go out there and find as many sons-of-bitches you can and try to stop anyone else from getting killed. If we start turning on each other then we're doing their work for them."

Dean knows she's right. That doesn’t put out the fire burning in his guts, though. "Bill shouldn't have died."

Ellen's face breaks open and she swallows once and nods, hard. "You're right. But that's the life."

Dean looks away from her. "What are you going to do about Jo?" he asks quietly.

She laughs. "Keep her close. Train her up right for when she won't listen to an old woman like me anymore. Make sure she's ready."

Pain lances through his heart at that. "Bill wasn't ready." He feels crippled by his anger, by his helplessness.

Ellen's eyes are sad, but she nods. "No one ever is, really. But we still try."

Dean nods, and they go inside together. The kitchen is directly below Jo's room, and the silence from above is conspicuous. "You should talk to her," Ellen says, and flicks her eyes up toward the ceiling.

Dean follows her gaze and then looks back down to meet her eyes. He doesn't reply, but she must see how uncomfortable the thought makes him, because she rests her hand on his arm squeezes it, comforting. "She said she doesn't want to talk to me. She's upset." She smiles at him. "You always forget, but Jo thinks of you as a brother. So go do your job, big brother. Make our girl feel better."

It gives Dean a direction to go in, something to _do_ , and he bobs his head gratefully. About to go, he turns back to Ellen and looks at her. "You sure you don't need me to talk to you, too?" he asks, unsure.

She smiles at him. "No. I get to be strong for you, here. I've got my own shoulders to cry on."

Dean can't help but feel that he's not doing enough, but he bites his lip and nods. It's quiet as he walks up the stairs, but when he lays the pads of his fingers against the wood of Jo's door he can just make out the quiet sound of muffled crying. The hallway is cold. "Jo?" he calls, "It's me. Can I come in?"

A muffled "yeah" emerges from the room and Dean twists the knob and steps inside. Light pours in from Jo's windows, bright and cheery on the mix of pink frill and silver steel that decorates her room. Dean steps inside and closes the door behind himself but hesitates before he goes in further, studying Jo's prone form huddled under her blankets.

"Jo?" he asks, and then can't help but smile when she pokes her head out, head still covered by her pink comforter. She sticks her arm out from the blankets and waves him over, and Dean steps forward and then sits down on her bed. He doesn't say anything, and after a few awkward moments of silence Jo pushes her blanket off and sits up, facing him with her legs crossed. He stared at her, awkward, until she throws herself forward and wraps herself around him in a tight, smothering hug. "I've got you," he whispers, and swallows past the sudden resurgence of tears. Jo's shaking in the circle of his arms but she's silent, even as she squeezes him so hard it hurts.

She pushes herself back once she calms, and takes the time to drag Dean more firmly onto her bed, so their knees are touching. "You have to leave," she says seriously, and Dean freezes. Before his thoughts even have time to really take that the wrong way, she continues, "You have to go out there and find out what happened to him." She laughs, and it's bitter. "I would go, but Mom will never let me go, not now. But you've been hunting for years, now— she can't stop _you_."

"Ellen says—"

"I know what Mom says," Jo scowls, waving his words away. "But there's no harm in making sure, right?"

Dean says nothing for a moment, then shakes his head. "No. Ellen's right. I won't— we can't get divided like that." Jo looks shocked, betrayed, so he reaches forward and grips her hand between his. "He wouldn't want us fighting, right? Well, the Campbells," and here he can't keep the light grimace off his face, "were his friends. You think he'd be friends with someone who'd do that to him?" It hurts him to say it, when everything in him knows that Ellen and Jo would be better off without him, safe where he can’t love them. But he promised Ellen to talk sense into Jo, and sense doesn’t involve revenge.

Jo scowls and pulls against his grip, but he holds on tight and she eventually gives up. "No," she admits grudgingly. A shudder tears through her and suddenly tears are trickling down her round cheeks again. "I just— it's not right. I miss him already. _How can he just be gone?_ " She hiccupped. "And she— we didn't even get to say goodbye. There's no body, no _nothing_ , just this _stupid_ letter and his lighter, like that's supposed to be enough!" She draws the letter from that morning out from her bed sheets and clenches her hand hard around it, crumpling the paper further. Dean stares at it and catches his breath, but doesn't reach for it. He doesn't want to read it. He’s read enough letters that fail to say goodbye.

To distract himself, Dean brings Jo close in another hug. She's hot against him, or maybe he's just cold, but he loves her so fiercely it makes him afraid, because the things he loves always die. "I can find him," he says to her quietly. "I can find where he was— were the pyre was." That’s not going too far. It’s the smart thing to do, really.

Jo is tense in his arms and shakes her head. "No," she says, voice muffled in his shirt. "No, that's— You don't have to. But I still say you should find Mary Campbell, and you ask her— you ask her what really happened." She sniffs, and Dean spares a brief moment to be grossed out that his shirt is probably covered in her snot, but he doesn't push her away. She pulls back and takes Bill's lighter out from the folds of her blankets and offers it to Dean. "He called it lucky," she offers in explanation when Dean doesn't take it. "And if you're hunting— by yourself no less— you'll need all the luck you can get."

Dean takes the lighter hesitantly and flicks it open, the edge of the wheel rough against his thumb. He closes it with a _snick_. "It should be yours," he says quietly.

Jo smacks him, hard. "Don't be an idiot, Dean. Idiots just get killed." Her eyes are filled with pain but she doesn't take her words back, just keeps staring at him intently.

Dean clears his throat. "Thanks." He's always awkward in these moments, but he forces himself to say, "He'd be proud of you, you know."

Jo shoves him hard in the shoulder. "I know that. He'd be proud of you, too." She smiles at him, and it's a delicate thing, but real. "Now go talk to Mom. Might as well get that heart attack over with, huh?"

Dread fills Dean at her words, but he nods. "You think she'll be mad?"

"Maybe," Jo hedges. "But she'll let you go. She loves you like crazy, you know?"

Dean ducks his head, blushing. He knows. That’s the problem. "I'll miss you," he says quietly, like he’s saying it to himself. When he looks up Jo's smiling again, wider this time.

"I'll miss you too. But I'll be eighteen in a few years and Mom won't be able to keep me here, and we'll hunt together. All you need to do is stay safe until then, you hear?" Her words are teasing, but worry lurks in the back of her eyes— Dean knows that worry. It's the kind of feeling you get when someone you love dies and all you want is for the ones left to be _safe_. He’s felt it all his life.

He clears his throat. "I'll call," he promises, standing.

"And write," she counters, and wraps the blankets back over her shoulders and tucks them in close, so it's wrapped around her like a cape.

Dean nods, and leans down to give her a quick kiss to the cheek. "You stay safe, too. I've seen the way your little "not-boyfriends" have started looking at you, and if they think I won't come back if I hear anything, you tell them they're wrong."

Jo just rolls her eyes at him, but she's smiling again. She's still got the letter in one hand, the corner of it just peeking out from between the gap in the blanket. Bill's lighter feels heavy in Dean's grip.

His feet tread heavily down the stairs, overly loud in the silence of their home. The bar won't be open for hours, and the air feels oppressive without its ebb and flow, even though it never has before. The house feels emptier than it ever has, even though Bill has been physically gone for more than just the last few hours. Dean shivers and stops at the bottom of the stairs, listening for some sign of Ellen.

The TV is on in the living room, but Ellen's not there; Dean finds her in the kitchen, standing at the sink with a white-knuckled grip on the counter, staring out the window with blind eyes. Dean pulls out one of the chairs at the table, deliberately scraping it along the ground, and consumes himself in the act of sitting as Ellen wipes at her eyes and faces him with a small smile.

"How was it?" she asks, sitting down across from him. The table is small, and Ellen deliberately taps her foot once against Dean's boot, a small, familiar motion.

Dean puts the lighter down on the table between them and lays his palms flat against the smooth wooden top. "She gave me this," he says quietly.

Ellen nods, like she expected it. "Bill would have wanted you to have it."

Dean frowns and palms the lighter, leaning back in his seat. When Ellen doesn't say anything else, he sucks in a deep breath and blurts out, "I'm leaving."

Ellen's brows crinkle. "You have a hunt?" she asks, and Dean knows that this is going to hurt her, losing both the men in her life at once.

"No, I— I'm going to go on the road. Permanently. Follow the hunts." The words feel torn out of him, like he's deliberately ripping out what's left of his heart. It's stupid; he's not abandoning his family, he's _protecting them_. "I'll come back sometimes," he adds, weakly.

Ellen looks at him with an indecipherable expression on her face and slides her hands forward to grip onto Dean's wrists. She's strong, and Dean hopes he bruises. "You aren't going after the Campbells," she says.

Dean smiles, small and painful, and shakes his head. "No, I. I do want to find them. But just to ask for myself what happened." He locks his gaze with hers. "I won't go after them, but we deserve to know."

Ellen's eyes dart back and forth between Dean's, but she licks her lips and eventually nods. "You can take my car," she offers eventually. "And my address book. There's a man in South Dakota, Bobby Singer— he'll set you up with plates, might even sell you a car if you're nice about it." She shifts her hands to grip Dean's fingers. "Stick to ghosts, listen to what other hunters tell you. Call, if you have any questions." She hesitates. "And when you find Mary Campbell, you tell her I want Bill's journal. It's not right that she kept it; it wasn't hers to keep."

Dean's heard most of this before, but his hands tighten in Ellen's when she mentions the journal. He can feel his path taking shape in his mind. He's going to find out the truth, get some real answers.

He's going to find the Campbells.


	2. Chapter 2

Finding the Campbells is easier said than done.

Dean would say they were like ghosts, but ghosts stay put. Ghosts make the papers. Everything he hears about the Campbells— rumours, mostly, and even those are sparse— puts them all over the country, working a huge swath of jobs. After a month of chasing his own tail, Dean gives up tracking down the leads; by the time he hears anything, the Campbells have been weeks or months gone, and he doesn't want rumours about his search to beat him to the punch. Reluctantly, he turns his energy where it's needed most— hunting.

It takes him longer than it should to realize he's _good_ at it.

He works solo, which limits what he can take on even more than his age, so he narrows his focus to things that don't require impersonating law enforcement— home haunts, with a few urban legends come to life he can pass off as interesting to a novice reporter. The witnesses are the hardest part, but the hunt itself... well, Dean's a natural. His instincts are good, and Bill's training is better. All he has to do is buckle down and _work_ , and all the monsters' secrets open themselves up to him. He almost never has to call Ellen, but he does anyway, her voice a comforting thrum through the receiver. Jo almost always sounds strained when Ellen hands the phone over, and Dean knows they're fighting, but neither of them will talk about it. Dean feels guilty, but he never offers to come home to mediate. Jo seems to always know when he's about to offer, and yells at him until he caves.

Ellen proves herself right; the job is about saving lives, and that's important enough to make the Campbells a side project, something to keep his eyes open for but not to run himself ragged over.

He's in Chicago, following what by all appearances is a hitchhiking siren, when he meets the Campbells again.

Dean's spent two months following the thing down the interstate, always just two steps and a body too slow, and if he hadn't found a witness who swore up and down there was a monster preying on men in his old hang out in Chicago, Dean would have given up when the thing hit the big city. Searching for a monster in a city is like looking for a wasp larvae in an ants nest, and the people tend to be just as unhelpful; they keep to themselves even if they know something, and so Dean much prefers to stick to the smaller towns.

 _Fuze_ is the type of club Dean is uncomfortably familiar with, a long hall leading to a wide room filled with dark corners and hidden doorways. It's just crowded enough that if anyone wanted to work the crowd they'd be able to go without notice, slip out back or behind closed doors without drawing attention to themselves. He looks at the booths and the small dance floor, grabs a beer from the bar and sits himself down in one of the booths to watch the crowd. From his vantage point, everything seems normal; the dance floor is filled with groups of girls who drift off to dance with the men around them and then back, and the loud chatter of voices from all around him as people try to hold a conversation over the pound of music.

Dean knows this scene. A few years ago, he'd have snuck in and done something very similar, eyes keen for just the right combination of horny and rich. He recognizes the various types that parade themselves before his eyes; time's passed, but people are the same. He's sure there's some girls working the crowd, and he keeps his eyes peeled for them: if he's right, the siren will be pulling a lot of the same moves.

He drinks his beer slowly, but it's drained before Dean has seen anything note-worthy, so he ditches the booth and moves onto the dance floor. He doesn't like drinking on the job, but he can't sit for long without a drink and not expect trouble: the only people Dean's ever seen stay dry at a bar are either dancing or dealing, and he doesn't want to have to deal with a pissy bouncer if he doesn't have to.

The crowd parts for him like water, and the girls take notice immediately. They check him out from the corner of their eyes and the whispers turn to smiles and inviting looks almost immediately. Dean feels the attention of the men around him shift, too, and immediately starts performing the sort of awkward shuffle he's seen scare girls away all across the country. The attention fades, from both sides, and he's free to watch again.

He's spotted either a working girl or his target— a blonde, older, who's circling the crowd with keen eyes and a predator's walk— when he's distracted by the press of a hard body against his back.

Dean tenses, the crowd suddenly too close, and a pair of hands slide around his hips with a strong grip he knows could leave bruises. "I recognize you," purrs a voice into his ear, and the hand edges under the line of Dean's jeans. "You were so pretty, then— but you grew up nice, didn't you?"

The crowd is too close to step away but Dean forces it anyway, earning a curse and a dirty look from the pair of girls in front of him, but there's a solid foot between him and the man behind him when he turns around. It's a man— of course it's a man— old, dressed in a business suit. "I don't know you," Dean says, but he doesn't believe it himself. This man set off all of Dean's instincts, rich and just a little dangerous; willing to pay.

The John doesn't seem bothered by the distance Dean's created, just steps in close and lays his hands all over Dean again. "You need to get your eyes checked then, hm? _Dean_ ," he says, and it's filthy, and suddenly Dean feels like he's been dunked in a bucket of oil, like there's a film laid over his skin.

He runs.

Off the dance floor, through the first door marked exit he sees, then around a corner toward the back of the building, the alley dark and quiet. There are a handful of cars, obviously belonging to the staff, crammed into the tiny lot. Dean ducks into a doorway and plants his hands against the wall and tries to catch his breath as his skin tingles with memories he refuses to acknowledge. He tastes salt on his tongue and spits on the ground, frantically, but the ghost-taste doesn't go away. He closes his eyes and bites his lip, hard, until the taste of copper fills his mouth and chases the other away.

He pushes the memories away with the taste and calms, then straightens. His gun is a comforting press in the small of his back and he reaches one hand back to touch it, then the knife strapped to the inside of his wrist. It's the first time he's encountered someone from Before, but he shouldn't have reacted the way he did. There was no threat, nothing but a reminder of where he came from, and Dean did nothing but confirm it by running away, and probably drew a lot of unwanted attention in the process. He takes a few deep, even breaths and steps out of the doorway and into the middle of a mugging.

There's a kid laid out flat on his back with a man perched on top of him, hands wrapped around his neck. The kid’s face is red, and though he’s struggling, his motions are clumsy and sluggish, obviously weak from the lack of air.

"Hey!" Dean calls, striding forward quickly. The kid's eyes widen and he waves his hand as though he wants Dean to mind his business, and the man perched on his chest twists toward Dean with a smirk on his face, his eyes a solid, inky black.

Dean jerks to a stop, but his gun is out an instant, shooting the man in the chest before he can think, _What the fuck_.

The man— monster— snarls and raises a hand toward Dean, and Dean goes flying back, lands hard on the ground a good ten feet away. His head is ringing, but he can hear what must be the kid, voice returned to him by Dean’s distraction. His voice is quiet and hoarse, but it gets louder as he goes, as he spits out a string of what Dean distantly recognizes as Latin.

The reaction is immediate. Dean stares, shocked, as the he man with the black eyes screams, then throws his head back in agony. Black smoke explodes from the man’s mouth and circles in the air, almost hesitating, but the kid starts speaking again, another long string of Latin, and the smoke shoots up, over the roof of the building and away. The body collapses to the ground with its exit, a broken pile of limbs with nothing left to animate it. Dean drags himself up and steps around the small puddle of blood growing around the body and approaches the kid, who's raised himself into a crouch and is rubbing his already red neck.

"Are you okay?" Dean asks, eyes flicking over the kid as he sweeps the parking lot for any further threat. There's nothing, just the faint hint of music from a window above them; they're alone.

"I'm fine," he answers, as Dean lowers his gun but doesn't put it away. He studies Dean intently and tilts his head. "Are you a hunter?" There's an undercurrent of excitement in his voice, and a shiver makes its way down Dean's spine to match. He's met a few hunters on the road, but they've all been— well, frankly, old.

"I am." Dean tucks his gun away and offers the kid a hand, then blinks when it's taken and the kid grows up, and up, and up. He's taller than Dean by maybe two inches, and skinny as a beanpole, like he's been stretched tall with not enough time to adjust. He's too young to have gotten into the club, and from his dress it's obvious he didn't even try. "What was that?" he asks, staring between the body and now-empty sky.

"Demon," the kid says. He runs a hand through his hair and rubs his neck again. He blinks, and his eyes focus in on Dean sharply as his eyes drag down Dean's body and then snap back up to his face. He licks his lips. "Thanks for saving me. I'm Sam." He sticks his hand out for Dean to shake, and his hand is clammy. There's dirt on his palm, and it digs into Dean's skin as they touch.

"Dean Winchester," he says, and pumps Sam's hand once, firmly.

Sam looks eager and his grip tightens on Dean's hand for a moment, but it fades and he lets go of Dean's hand, blinking wildly. He opens his mouth as though to speak, but then his eyes flick over Dean's shoulder and he jerks to attention.

"Sam!" a woman calls, and Dean twists around to see who's joined them.

It's the woman Dean had tagged as the siren, a gun in her hand, though Dean can't tell where it's come from; her clothes are so tight he should have seen it, inside. Adrenaline rushes through him and he steps back to keep both Sam and the woman in his sight.

"Who's she?" Dean asks, directing the question at Sam but keeping his eyes on the woman.

She's drawn close enough that she can hear Dean's words, and she answers Dean's question herself. "I'm Mary Campbell," she says.

She keeps talking, but Dean doesn't hear. There's blood rushing in his ears, and his focus has narrowed in on her, everything else fallen away. She doesn't look how Dean expected. He doesn't know _what_ he expected, he'd never asked, but— she looks like Jo. Or like he imagines Jo would, when she's older. She's blonde, athletic, with the same intense, focused look he's seen on the faces of hunters from around the country. There's nothing about her to tip Dean off to the fact that she would get her partner killed.

The burning pit of hollow anger that's lived inside Dean for most of his life, directionless for so long, doesn't seem to care about that. It swells up and before he quite realizes what he's doing, he's stepped forward and is taking a swing at her.

It's not a calculated move, all instinct and rage, and there's a voice that sounds like Bill at the back of Dean's mind already critiquing his technique. Campbell sees the punch coming and easily ducks out of the way, her body leaning away in a practiced, flexible roll, and Dean twists himself back toward her, even though he hasn't regained his balance. Campbell takes the opening and knocks Dean's legs out from under him with one swipe of her leg.

Dean lands hard on the ground, ready to roll, but Campbell throws herself down on top of him, one of her knees digging hard into the base of his ribcage, right over the delicate bone at the joint. She slams her forearm into his neck and he freezes as he struggles to draw in a breath; Campbell just lets her weight fall onto him more firmly, the weight on his larynx an undeniable danger. "Who are you?" she asks, eyes narrowing down on him.

She doesn't move her arm and Dean doesn't have enough air to reply, but Sam pops up from the sidelines. "That's Dean Winchester." On top of him, Campbell gives a full body jerk like she recognizes the name and then slowly, deliberately, climbs off him. There's a strange look in her eyes, and Dean _hopes_ she recognizes the name— hopes she knows that Dean's here to make her answer the questions she left for his family four years ago.

"Pleasure to meet you." It’s an obvious lie. Dean's maybe being a little heavy on the eye contact, too-hostile, but he can't just turn off the anger he feels as he stands. "I've spent a good amount of time trying to find you." Dean flicks his eyes at Sam. "You a Campbell, too?"

Sam opens his mouth to reply but Campbell gets there first. "He is. And I did hear you were looking. Too bad for you, our family doesn't come running any time some two-bit hunter has a bone to pick with us."

The barb stings, and Dean straightens. "I'm not just some two-bit hunter. Bill was my _family_ , and he died when he was with you. You think that little note you wrote meant anything? It didn't even say what killed him!" Campbell flinches at the mention of the letter, and Dean is filled with a grim sort of pleasure at her obvious guilt.

From the corner of his eye, Dean can see Sam; he's watching Campbell with a half-angry, half-expectant expression on his face. He swings his gaze over to Dean. "Bill Harvelle?" he asks, obviously looking for clarification.

"They were on a hunt together," Dean confirms. "I think it's safe to say that she came home, but we never even got to see his body."

"There wasn't much of a body left to see," Campbell says. She’s shut the guilt away, and her words are distant, cold— but she's not looking at either of them, staring off into some scene only she can see. "I burned the rest." Her eyes focus in on Dean. "Would you rather I have brought him to you, give his spirit a chance to manifest?"

Dean only realizes he's clenched his teeth when he they unclamp as he replies, "No. But you should have _talked_ to us. How would you feel if you found out from a letter that someone you loved had died? Didn’t you owe it to Ellen to talk to her face to face? Didn't you owe it to _Bill_?"

Campbell spends a long moment staring at him, her eyes tracking over his features. Even Sam's started to shift in place, impatient, when she answers. "It wouldn't have been safe for me to come myself. I was still being followed."

Dean narrows his eyes. "Followed by _what_?"

Campbell hesitates, and Sam takes the opportunity to speak. "Demons." He's looking at Dean, but he switches his gaze to Campbell. "It was demons, wasn't it? It's always demons." His mouth is twisted in a moue of distaste, and he ducks his head so his too-long bangs cover his eyes.

Campbell sighs. "Yes." She turns her eyes on Dean with a sudden, intense focus. "Our family specializes in them— they like to play cat and mouse with us." She grins, her teeth bared fiercely. "We prefer to be the cat."

"And Bill got caught in the middle." He looks at Sam. "The demon that was attacking you— that's just normal?"

Sam raises his head to speak but Campbell beats him to the punch again. "So there _was_ a demon attacking you," she says, relief an inexplicable undertone to her voice.

"There was." An all-too familiar expression of teenage petulance comes over Sam's face, a forceful reminder of his youth; he can’t be much older than Jo. "You know the spell works, so what were you expecting?" he asks her, an old argument brought into the open.

Interesting content, for an argument. "Spell?" Dean asks.

Campbell ignores him. "It's far from perfect; if it had changed," her eyes flick to Dean, "I would want to know about it."

"What spell, Campbell?" Dean asks, taking an aggressive step forward.

Campbell's breath hitches, and her face shuts down cold. "That's family business."

Dean really doesn't want to take any more of this family business bullshit. "You made it my business when you got Bill involved."

"He's right, Mom," Sam says, and Dean blinks. For some reason, he hadn't made the connection. He'd never thought of Mary Campbell having her own children. Sam steps toward Dean and rests one hand heavily on his shoulder, a casual point of contact that makes Dean want to step away. "I'm sorry she didn't say it to you, but Mom's talked to the family about Bill a few times. What you just saw, that happened to him. He helped Mom get away from a demon, and the next day she found his body." He's turned to Campbell now, but he angles himself back toward Dean, the motion pressing him to Dean’s side. "He'll have to come with us." He says it like an ultimatum, absolutely sure of himself.

Dean can't decipher the expression on Campbell's face, but she nods, slowly. "It would be safer." It seems too easy. It _is_ too easy. Dean doesn't believe in _easy_.

He takes a small step away from Sam, so they're no longer pressed against one another. "I'm not some lapdog that'll come just because you called."

Sam rolls his eyes at him. "You were just asking to be included," he points out, and Dean's annoyed to realize he's right. He's just gotten everything he wanted handed to him: a connection to the Campbells and though them, a way to get justice for Bill. But it _is_ too easy, too perfect. "You're here because of the murder cases, right?" Sam continues, oblivious to Dean's line of thought. "Well, so are we. We'll start there and pool our resources."

Despite his trepidation, Dean forces himself to volunteer his information. Suspicious circumstances or no, if he’s going to work with them he’ll have to at least seem willing to share. "It's a siren." he says, "I've been able to track its trail back to Wisconsin. It's been moving fast, and I don't know how long it'll stay in town."

"Not a demon?" Sam asks, looking at Campbell rather than Dean.

Campbell tilts her head, the blue of her eyes just visible through the pale fan of her lashes. "It could be a siren. Gwen did the research, and we haven't had a chance to talk to anyone yet. All of the reports talked about this drive to hurt people, but that isn't specific enough to tell." She looks at Dean, her face indecipherable. "There's no way to know for sure. We've already met a demon here, and I'm not going to put you at risk. Are you staying close by?"

Dean nods.

"Good." Campbell takes a deep breath and squares her shoulders. "Let’s go get your stuff. I'll pay for the room." She says it like it's only just occurred to her and she likes the idea, like she's doing Dean a _favour_.

"I don't want your charity." He crosses his arms and scowls at her.

Her lip quirks up and she smiles, though she looks sad. "I'm asking a lot from you. I only think it's fair. In the morning I'll go to the police station and arrange a blood sample."

"Ash can make sure it's done as a rush job," Dean says. It'll be just the excuse he needs to step out and call the Roadhouse, and hopefully talk to Jo. Ash is a new feature in their lives, and this will be the first time Dean will have made use of his services; if his work is as useful as his mere presence in the house, Dean is going to buy him a beer on his next trip home.

Campbell raises her eyebrow but says nothing in reply. She steps up to Sam and straightens the collar of his jacket. "I'm going inside to get my coat. You'll be okay on your own?"

Sam looks mortified, eyes flashing over toward Dean, and he waves her away from him. "I'll be fine." He's blushing, Dean is bemused to note. It's cute.

Campbell frowns at him but nods and turns to go back into the club. "I'll meet you back at the car," she says. "Dean, we'll stop by your hotel to get your stuff first."

Dean bristles under the order but agrees. It isn't so much that he thinks all her precautions are necessary, but Dean's willing to let go of a little personal freedom if it means he gets to keep Mary Campbell in his sights for longer. Campbell disappears around the corner and Sam and Dean are alone.

"I don't like this," Sam says.

Dean blinks at him, surprised. "What do you mean?"

"My mom." He's still staring after her. "Something's off." He glances at Dean through his lowered lashes, head tilted down to do it because of his height. "No offense, but it should have taken a lot more than my word alone to make her agree to work with you, let alone drag you to our motel. Something's up."

Dean can feel his brow crinkling in confusion. "Guilt?" he suggests.

"No," Sam says slowly. He pauses, as though reconsidering the thought, then shakes his head. "No, something else. I just don't know what." He’s talking to Dean like it’s the most normal thing in the world to share this kind of information, taking him into his confidence like Dean’s earned it.

"Possession?" Dean suggests, only half-joking.

Sam doesn't laugh, though. "She's got a tattoo— so do I— that makes that impossible." He grins. "I designed it myself," he says proudly, eyes eager on Dean as he speaks.

"And it works?" It is impressive: Bill had once tried to teach Dean and Jo something about creating their own protection sigils, but neither of them had taken to it. It's a complicated, delicate art, which didn't suit Dean one bit.

"Perfectly," Sam says, grinning. He goes into an enthusiastic description of the research he had to do to get the design just right, all waving hands and barely-contained energy. The atmosphere is easy, and Dean finds himself smiling despite himself. They've just met, but conversation between them feels easy, in a way Dean's only ever had with family. It sends a shiver of unease down Dean’s spine. Sam's young, and young people can make mistakes, but Dean feels it too. Feels like he can trust Sam. That's dangerous.

"Can I see it?" Dean interrupts Sam to ask.

Inexplicably, Sam blushes. "Sure," he croaks. He shrugs out of his jacket and just as he's unbuttoning his shirt to Dean's wide-eyed surprise, Campbell is back. She's wearing a black leather jacket that hugs every one of her curves.

"Show him your tattoo later," she says to Sam. She jerks her head toward the parking lot. "We should get going."

Sam coughs and puts his jacket back on. The movements are awkward and jerky, a complete contrast to the ease he'd shown when taking it off.

He dawdles between walking with Campbell or Dean but eventually shakes himself and falls into step with Dean.

"You're getting along well," Campbell says neutrally, not bothering to look back at them, her voice floating back to their ears on the wind.

Dean hunches in on himself and says nothing. He's not too sure Campbell approves of Sam showing so much interest in him.

Sam touches his elbow and says, "I've always gotten along well with hunters from outside the family. Someone needs to, after all," he says, pointedly.

Campbell looks back over her shoulder at them, her expression indecipherable, then turns forward again. "You might be right."

She stops beside a dark blue Firebird, one of the classic models— something from the early third generation, though Dean can't pinpoint the year. "Which one's you?" she asks, scanning the lot for a likely target.

Dean points to his car, the old Datsun Ellen gave him when he left. He hadn't been able to give it up, despite how ugly it was. It was Ellen's car— a car Bill had driven on occasion— and Ellen had said she'd understood when Dean asked to keep it, the smile in her voice audible even over the phone. Sam makes a faint noise of surprise and then coughs, earning a disapproving look from Campbell.

"We'll follow," she says, the order clear.

Dean keeps his trap shut, just walks to his car and gets in. The radio's set to country, and he taps his finger on the wheel to the beat idly as he pulls out and makes the short drive toward his motel. Lucky for him, _Fuze_ is just inside the city limits; Dean doesn't like the feel of being deep inside a big city, and it means there were a few only moderately sleazy motels open for his patronage. He pulls into the parking lot of the Magic Fingers Motel and rolls the car to a stop in front of his room.

He's just pulled out his room key when Campbell pulls her Firebird into the lot and then climbs out of the car. She's white-faced and tense, and Dean stops where he is at the sight of her.

"What's wrong?" he calls to her.

"You’re staying here?" she asks, hoarse.

Dean's brows crinkle and he nods. "So?" he asks. Did she think he'd be staying at the Ritz?

Campbell pulls out a key from her pocket that matches the one in Dean's hand. "So are we."

That's not good. Sam's climbed out of the Firebird and is staring at Dean over the top of it. "What does that mean?" he asks, shaken.

Campbell looks grim. "We're being set up." She tosses the key over the hood of car at Sam, who grabs it out of the air easily. "Get our stuff. We're relocating." She stares at Dean, hard. "You too."

Dean's not sure he's down with this plan at all— there's doubtful coincidence and then there's walking into an episode of the X-Files— but he doesn't want to stay here anymore than Campbell seems to. He ducks into his room and gathers his things, stuffing his bag fast and neat.

By the time he steps outside, Sam's back, two matching duffel bags clutched in his hands with white knuckles. He throws them into the back seat of the Firebird and says nothing, eyes worried.

Campbell watches Dean toss his own bag into his car and then comes forward and holds out a flask of holy water for Dean. "Drink it," she orders, eyes locked onto Dean's. Dean raises the flask to his lips. "Christo," Campbell says, and Dean forces himself not to blink as he takes his first swallow.

"You satisfied, Campbell?" he says as he lowers it from his lips.

Campbell relaxes and shakes herself. She sends a small, tight smile at Dean. "I had to be sure," she says by way of explanation.

Dean nods. "It's better to be safe," he agrees.

Sam comes around from the other side of the Firebird, turning the standoff between Dean and Campbell into a triangle. "Where are we gonna go?" he asks. There's something in his voice that calls to the lost feeling digging at Dean— the utter uncertainty of what to do when faced with a situation he's never had to deal with before.

Campbell is there to take up the slack. "Another motel, for now. We'll batten down, make sure we're safe for the night. In the morning I'll see what I can turn up." Campbell turns toward Dean before he can say anything. "You'll be staying with Sam when I go, make sure he's safe."

"He can't take care of himself?" Dean asks skeptically, looking at Sam. Sam's not _big_ , but he must weigh at least as much as Dean with his extra height.

Mary bites her lip and takes a deep breath. "The demons... they're fixated on Sam, for some reason." Her eyes are heavy on Dean. "I won't risk my son. Not for anything."

Dean makes a show of his reluctant nod, but part of him is glad. Spending time with Sam is easy; he's not sure what it would be like to spend time alone with Campbell, even on a hunt.

He gets into his car, and stretches just slightly out the window. "You got a place in mind?" he asks.

Campbell nods, eyes distant. "Follow us." She hesitates and rests one hand on the car door, strangely close . "And Dean— call me Mary. Please." There's a strange note of uncertainty in her voice.

Dean blinks, and nods. "Mary," he says obediently.

She smiles at him and taps the door before withdrawing. Dean follows her path back to the Firebird and then turns his eyes to Sam, who's lingering between the cars. He's looking at Dean with this confused, frustrated expression on his face. When he sees Dean looking back he ducks his head and smiles, eyes flicking toward his mom in the car in a moment of silent explanation.

Dean doesn't know Mary Campbell enough to know what's strange and what's not, but he trusts Sam's instincts, as inexplicable as that is. He'll be keeping his eyes open.

***

Dean insists on getting his own room, despite Campbell— Mary's— protests. He likes his space, and more than that, he won't get any sleep at all if they all stay in the same room. The expression of dismay on Mary and Sam's faces are so acutely identical it's funny, and he agrees to Mary setting up a few more complex protection charms around his room than he knows how to do.

It's late enough that the hush of the night has seeped in when there's a knock on the door.

He's stripped down to the black T-Shirt he wore to the club and has just finished washing up for bed, and he dries his face before he goes to answer it.

"Dean?" comes Sam's voice, disembodied and strange. "You in there?"

Dean rolls his eyes and opens the door. Sam's hand is raised as though to knock again, and when he sees Dean, he swallows once, hard. "Yeah, I'm here. What's up?" He steps back so Sam can join him inside; the night air is cold on his bare chest, but as Sam passes, a wave of warmth trails in his wake.

"My mom's feeling edgy, she's gone out to do a sweep of the area." He rolls his eyes like that kind of over-active paranoia is just another _Mom_ thing for her to do.

Dean waves at Sam to sit down and takes a seat on his own bed when Sam sits on the other. It's a small room, and Sam's right knee just touches Dean's when he spreads his legs out. Dean can't bring himself to move away, and Sam's eyes brighten.

"She seems convinced you're in danger," Dean says. He makes his hands lay relaxed between his legs instead of fidgeting like he wants.

Sam shrugs, like it's normal. "It's not all paranoia. I've been attacked more than most members of my family combined, and I've only been leaving the compound for a year."

"You lived on a compound?" he asks skeptically, frowning.

Sam ducks his head and nods, raising one hand to rub at the back of his neck. "All the Campbell kids do. There's too many of us to live in a house."

It's a foreign concept, the idea of having so much family they couldn't fit in between four square walls. "Huh." He coughs. "You've been hunting for a year?"

Sam makes a _so-so_ gesture. "I've been on the road with my Mom for a year. We start training from a young age; it feels like I've been doing this my whole life, sometimes." He smiles at Dean, his teeth bright white. "What about you? You knew Bill Harvelle?" he asks, then his eyes widen, like he realizes what a sensitive question that could be. "I mean— I never met him, but Mom used to talk about him." He gave Dean another smile, helpless. "Mom doesn't have a lot of friends outside the family, and she... she really cared about Bill, I think."

Dean didn't know what to do with any of that. "Bill adopted me," he settled on eventually. "Trained me. I've been out on my own for the last four years."

Sam ducks his head, acknowledging the date. "I've never met another hunter my own age who wasn't a Campbell," he offers. He presses his knee more firmly into Dean's. "My family's kind of xenophobic. I've always hated it."

The conversation falls out of Dean's mind, and he shifts his knee away, awkward. "I don't— you don't have to thank me for saving you." The words feel sour in his mouth. He feels cold, suddenly.

Sam frowns. "That's not what I was doing," he says, the confusion evident in his voice. "I." He cleared his throat and red creeps up his neck. "I just like touching you." His ears are bright red. "Like that."

Dean blinks. "But you can't," he says, like it's obvious. "You're good."

Sam's brows are furrowed in confusion. "What does that mean?"

Sickness roils in Dean's stomach as he realizes what he's said, and he shifts his body away from Sam's, shoulders hunched. "It doesn't matter. You're what— eighteen? I remember eighteen. It's all," he waves his hands vaguely, "Hormones and being kept in with just family."

"You don't know me well enough to know what I want," Sam says, scowling. He leans forward aggressively and pulls Dean back around by his shoulder. "I was barely touching you. If you don't like it, then all you have to do is say so."

"I just don't want you doing something you'll regret because you feel obligated," Dean says. He leaves the question of whether or not he wants it unanswered; it's something he's never had to think about. Other than the Harvelles, he's never wanted to touch or be touched by anyone. Even now, Sam's hands on him feel normal, feel right, but that doesn't mean anything.

"Why would you even think that?" Sam asks, like he's honestly confused. He reaches out to Dean and then draws his hand back, frustrated. "I just want to touch you."

Dean closes off. "I'm not going to talk about that with you," he says, and he doesn't care how strange it sounds. He might trust Sam far too much for having just met him, but he's not about to go spilling his guts to him.

Lost in his thoughts, Dean doesn't notice the expression of determination replace the anger on Sam's face. His hand shifts from Dean's shoulder to his face, gentle. "Well I'm going to make it clear for you' obligation doesn't feel like _this_ ," he says, leans in and presses his lips to Dean's.

Dean opens his automatically, but his eyes are wide open and startled. Sam's are closed, and so close, and his hand reaches around to curl into the short hair at the back of Dean's head, gentle. Dean closes his eyes. Lets it happen.

Sam's not an amazing kisser. He presses a little too close, and he tilts his head too far, so his cheek sits too close to Dean’s nose and cuts off his air. Dean tilts his head into a better position and reaches up to grip Sam's shoulder as he kisses back.

Sam takes that for the permission it might as well be and surges against Dean at that, propelled off his bed and into Dean. He sneaks his tongue into Dean's mouth, angling Dean's head back just slightly with his grip on his hair. Dean sucks in a sharp breath through his nose and sucks, just once, on Sam's tongue. Sam gives off this little sound of desperate hunger and draws back, mouth wet and panting.

Dean is wide-eyed and his mouth is just slightly tender, his skin highly sensitized. He liked the kiss, he’s surprised to note. He's got goose bumps, the hair standing up straight and light from his arms, but it's good. He's almost shocked at how _present_ he feels; none of his internal alarms have been set off, and his thoughts are free from the shadow that had dogged him the night before at the club.

Sam removes his hands from Dean's hair like he's been burnt and stares at Dean eagerly. His leg bounces like it's on a spring for two seconds before it stills with the deliberateness of a forced stop. "Well?" he asks, finally.

Dean licks his lips. "That didn't feel like obligation," he admits. He doesn't know why Sam would want him, but he can't deny that he does.

Sam's brow furrows and he nods. His hands are pressed to the tops of his thighs. "Well. That's good." He bites his lip and ducks his head, suddenly looking small and unsure. "Did you like it?" he asks, hesitantly.

Dean blinks. "Oh. I." He coughs. "I did, yeah." It's strange; none of his Johns ever asked if he liked it, even when they were telling him he did.

Sam perks up and grins, so bright and wide. "Good. That's good." He's blushing, just a little, and when he stands his hands hang by his sides awkwardly. "I've got to go," he says. He reaches toward Dean's face quickly, like he can't help it, and touches the skin just under Dean's bottom lip. He makes a small sound of hunger and withdraws. "My Mom'll be back soon."

Dean finds himself smiling. "Sneaking out, huh? Trying to make up for the strange childhood by acting out all the teenage stereotypes, now?"

Sam smiles back; he looks relieved and slightly goofy. Like he's smitten. It makes Dean feel warm. "I guess." He leans down and gives Dean a quick kiss and steps back toward the door. "Don't forget to redraw the salt line," he warns. He casts one look back at Dean as he closes the door, and then he's gone.

Dean stands up and locks the door behind him, and stands with his forehead pressed against it for a long moment. He doesn't know what he's doing, doesn't know what Sam is doing. He adjusts himself with his left hand, absently, decides he doesn't care. It feels good, and Dean doesn't have enough things in his life that feel good to chase them away.

***

Dean wakes the next morning to the sound of Sam's knock on his door. He rubs a hand roughly over his face as he lets Sam in, accepting the cup of coffee Sam holds out as a peace offering. "What're you doing up so early?" Dean grumps. The coffee is hot on his tongue but he drinks it down quickly, grateful for the caffeine.

Sam rolls his eyes and takes a sip from his own cup. "My mom's off tracking down a lead and doesn't trust me to be alone."

Dean puts his coffee down on the night table and sits down to rummage through his duffle for clothes. "Do you think that's really necessary? Nothing happened last night."

Sam sighs, pacing the small length of the room with restless energy. "I don't know. She has good instincts."

Dean grunts in agreement sniffs his shirt. "You wanna go get some breakfast?" he asks. He stands and pulls on a pair of jeans over his boxers, then switches his sleep shirt out for the fresh one. Sam is staring at him when he pushes his head through the neck hole, mouth hanging open slightly.

Sam blinks, and takes a sip of his coffee. "Hungry," he croaks, then clears his throat. "Yeah, I'm hungry. You got a place in mind?"

Dean nods. "There's a diner just two streets over I went to yesterday. Good omelettes."

They toss their empty coffee cups and leave. Mary's taken the Firebird, so they both squeeze into Dean's Datsun. Sam looks crowded even with his seat pushed all the way back, and Dean shoots him an apologetic shrug as they pull out of the parking lot.  
"We should go after the siren while my mom's out," Sam says suddenly, eyes staring vaguely out the front of the car.

Dean shoots him a look as he pulls into the parking lot in front of _Rose's Diner_. It's small and faintly dirty looking from the outside, but the distinct blend of breakfast smells that surrounded it draws Dean in just like it did the first time. "I called Ash last night," he says. "We might be able to talk our way into a blood sample if we say we're just picking it up." The IDs Ash makes are second to none, and Dean's never been spotted out for their quality; his age, especially with Sam in tow, would pose more of a problem.

Sam climbs out of the car and stretches, his body long and lean as he reaches toward the sky. The sun has been up for an hour and the air is clear, still chilly from the night. "Who's Ash?" he asks as he falls out of the stretch.

Dean can't help the frown that tugs at his lips. "He's a stray Ellen picked up on one of her hunts; he's a computer whizz, been helping us out with the research the last few months."

Sam nods like that means something to him and reaches out to hold the door for Dean when they reach the diner. Dean rolls his eyes and goes inside, Sam a warm shadow at his back. "You any good with computers?" Sam asks as they slide into the booth.

Dean shakes his head, and they continue with the idle small talk until the waitress comes to their table and takes their orders. Once she leaves, Sam settles down. "There wasn't a murder last night, I checked first thing. It's been three days, now. If it's a siren, it'll be back tonight." He's different when he's talking about hunting, more serious. It's the same way he looked when he was talking with Dean last night, Dean realizes with a flutter of nerves in his stomach.

"Unless it's moved again," Dean points out easily. "Ash made it a rush job, but the police don't always cooperate with anonymous orders from above."

Sam nods, but doesn't say anything as their food arrives. They eat, talking quietly all the while. They've finished formulating their plan for that night by the time they've finished their meals, and Dean waves away Sam's attempt to pay for their food. They're strolling toward the door, strides long and bellies full, when Sam stumbles.

They're walking single file to leave the diner, Dean in front, but he's twisted around to speak to Sam when Sam trips on nothing and falls to one knee. He's got a hand clamped to his head and his face is twisted in agony.

"Sam!" Dean barks out, and spins all the way around to see what got the other hunter. There's nothing, only the concerned faces of the other diners, and Dean reaches out a hand to touch Sam's shoulder. "Sam, what's wrong?"

Sam doesn't reply for a long moment, eyes squeezed shut. Wetness is gathered at the edge of his eyes and his jaw is tight, a muscle ticking wildly in his cheek. "It's— Mom," he grits out eventually.

"Mary?" Dean says dumbly.

Sam blinks his eyes open, and they're bloodshot, pupils dilated with his pain. "We've gotta go," he says, and struggles to his feet. Dean steadies him with a grip on his shoulders and looks around at the other diners with wide, shocked eyes, but hustles Sam out of the diner obediently. He props Sam against the door of his Datsun and shakes his head when Sam takes a deep breath and climbs in.

"What was that?" Dean asks as he climbs into the car, adrenaline still running fast and hard through his veins.

Sam's hunched over in his seat, one hand rubbing hard at his temples. He's quiet, but sighs as the silence continues. "We need to go to the harbour," he says.

Dean gives him an incredulous look, but starts the car and pulls out anyway. "So?" he asks when Sam doesn't elaborate.

Sam bites his lip and draws in a quick, shuddering breath, before he squares his shoulders and turns his face toward Dean. "I'm psychic," he says, simply.

Dean almost laughs, it sounds so cliché. "Psychic," he repeats. Then he frowns. It does make sense. "Is that why you've got demons chasing after you?" His mind is whirling, putting pieces together fast and easy now that this last bit of the puzzle is out in the open.

Sam studies Dean's face before he replies, slowly. "No. No, not as far as we can tell. We've found other psychic kids, and most of them have never even heard of demons. The older ones I've talked to have all agreed that I'm unusual." He pauses. "I'm convinced Mom knows why. She put me under this protection spell when I was four years old, before I was ever attacked." He looks tired and drawn, like the words have haunted his own thoughts in the way Dean feels they'll haunt his.

Dean taps the wheel, mulling it over. "So what happened in the diner?"

Sam closes his eyes and leans his face against the passenger window. "I had a vision." He sounds tired, like the pain hasn’t fully left him.

"A vision?" Dean prompts.

Sam makes a small noise of agreement. "I can see things before they happen, sometimes. They've gotten stronger, clearer, in the last year." He hesitates. "It's why we're here at all," he admits. "I saw that something important would happen here, though I couldn't see what." He bites his lip. "I thought maybe I supposed to meet you, but now... I'm not sure."

Dean pushes the pedal more firmly toward the floor. "Maybe it's both," he mutters, off hand. "What did you see?"

Sam leans his head back against the car seat and closes his eyes. "My mom, hurt. A warehouse. Fire."

Dean's silent, waiting for him to continue. But Sam doesn't say anything, so Dean asks, "Was it demons?"

Sam gives a short, angry bark of laughter. "Of course it is. It's always demons."

Dean can't make himself continue the conversation after that, and Sam is pale and quiet in the seat beside him. The factories around the harbour rise up around them and Dean throws a glance at Sam. "Where am I going?"

Sam sits up and stares out the front of the car. "Straight. Number thirty-six." Dean keeps an eye on the numbers of the buildings they pass, old brass with lines of red rust dripping down from them. He stops the car a half mile away and shifts it into park and cuts the engine, climbing out. The air smells dirty, unnaturally full of ozone, like burnt metal.

"You got a plan?" he asks, squinting toward a pillar of smoke in the distance. Bingo.

Sam climbs out the car and shields his eyes against the glare of the sun, just rising above the arched rooftops around them. "Go in, get her out. Hope we're not too late."

It's not the sort of plan Dean was hoping for. He goes around to the back of his car and pops the trunk, frowning at his supplies. He grabs a flask of holy water and tosses another to Sam. "You'd better be quick with the exorcisms. That demon didn't even blink when I shot it."

Sam gives a grim little nod and tucks the holy water away. He grabs a shotgun from Dean's trunk without asking and heads off. Dean grabs a Bowie knife and makes sure the safety's on on his handgun and follows. They turn past the edge of the nearest factory and Sam falters and then breaks into a run with a curse. The smoke is coming from a car across the lot from them, black and ruined. It's lopsided from where the back tires have blown apart, huge swatches of the paint burned off to expose the steel framework. Dean recognizes it right away as Mary's Firebird, and follows in Sam's wake on quick, quiet feet. When he gets close enough, he can see that the car is surrounded by broken glass, and the guts of the engine have been ripped out and are spilling out from the hood of the car. There fire is mostly out, though the inside of the car is still glowing a dull, sinister red. The smoke is thick around the car, but Dean can still see the number of the building behind it, a predictable thirty-six.

"She's already inside," Sam says in a tight, strained voice. His eyes take in the car without surprise, and Dean knows he's still this all before. "We need to move fast."

An explosion rocks through them before Dean can reply, but they recover and are running toward the factory without a word. The windows of the building have been blown out, and familiar black smoke is billowing out from them, completely unlike the smoke that still rises off the Firebird. Dean keeps pace with Sam as he yells, "What the fuck was that?"

Sam's voice is dark with worry when he answers, “That was my mom—probably cast a spell. That many demons, you couldn't pull off an exorcism." He falls silent as they reach the factory doors, and jerks his head at Dean to cover him from the other side. He stands to the side and pulls the door open slowly, the creases in his face deepening in worry. He looks old, and strangely resigned, even as he pushes his way inside.

Dean covers Sam's back instinctively, and only thinks briefly about the trust Sam has shown him to put Dean at his back. They go in fast and hard, but even as Dean flicks his eyes around the corners of the space, he can see they've missed the party. It's mostly empty, a few broken crates the only thing to break the void, and it's quiet in the way things get when there's just been a storm of noise.

Dean's still scanning the scene when Sam makes a low, broken sound and runs toward the crates. Dean follows, but when he sees what set Sam off he slows to a crawl. Propped up against one of the crates in the middle of what looks like a Devil's Trap painted in blood, lays Mary Campbell.

She's not in good shape. She's pale, her eyes sunken into her face and a thin trail of blood leaking out of her mouth, nose, ears. She's got an arm cradled around her front like she's holding herself together with it, and when Sam drops to his knees in front of her, the hand she reaches up toward his face is visibly shaking. Sam is like a slightly healthier mirror, pale and sickly looking.

Sam cradles her hand between his own, and the blood smears over them wetly. He brings it up to his face and holds it against his cheek. "Mom," he says, voice broken as her body.

"Baby," Mary says, and her eyes are happy through the pain. "You got here fast."

Sam smiles, and tears fall from his face to wash away the blood on their hands. "Dean drove me." He flicks his eyes toward Dean, and nausea twists Dean's stomach when Mary Campbell's eyes rest on him and sharpen, the vagueness that had taken over falling away.

"Oh," she says quietly, almost surprised. Her eyes flick between Dean and Sam a few times and she puffs out a harsh breath, a blood bubble swelling from one of her nostrils. It bursts, sending a tiny spray of blood over what's left of the clear skin of her face. "It's lucky you’re here." With those words, her hand snaps out past Sam and grabs a fistful of Dean's shirt, dragging him toward her. Dean lands awkwardly in his attempt not to crush her beneath his weight. Mary doesn’t seem concerned with his comfort; she rips apart Dean’s shirt with shocking strength and then looks up to meet his eyes. "You have a knife?" she says, as though it's a completely normal question.

"Mom?" Sam asks. Dean keeps his eyes on Mary's, and slowly pulls his knife out from his boot sheath. He flips it over and offers it to her handle first.

Her hand is trembling, but she curls it around the handle of the knife tight. "I'm going to die," she tells Dean calmly. Sam makes a small sound of denial, but Mary ignores him. "When I do, all the protections I have on Sam go with me. He'll be vulnerable, and more than likely dead before he can get to safety. You don't want that, do you, Dean?"

Dean shakes his head dumbly. Mary smiles, relief and some strange satisfaction painted over his face. "Good. That's good. I can," her breath stutters and she coughs, catching Dean with the spray of blood. Her lips are a bright red cut across her face. "I can switch the spell's anchor from me to you. It'll tie you together. Keep him safe." Her eyes snap over to Sam. "Keep you both safe."

Dean frowns and looks at Sam, whose white-faced silence says it all. He's afraid. His mother is dying, and with her, his safety net against the demons that have haunted his family for years. He looks terribly young, so unsure, and he's looking at Dean like Dean can save him. Like Dean already _has_ saved him.

Dean licks his dry lips and turns back to Mary. "Do it," he says. She smiles, and she looks proud, like Dean's her prodigal son and just proved himself to her. She tightens her grip on the knife and pressed it just below the jut of Dean's collarbone, and draws it along the skin of his chest slowly. Dean's always been one to care for his weapons, and his knife is razor sharp; his skin splits with minimal pain, only a strange, familiar sting. Mary lowers the knife and reaches out with her left hand to smear the blood on Dean's chest with her fingertips. Head craned down to look, Dean watches Mary draw a sigil into his skin. He can't see the whole thing, but it looks strangely familiar. Before Dean has a chance to study it, Mary cuts her hand and presses against the mark on his chest in one smooth, practiced motion.

Light bursts into being between them, so bright Dean can't look directly at it, so bright he can't see Mary through its glare. He tries to flinch away but can't; he's frozen in place, pinned down. For a long moment, he can't breathe, and then the light condenses, and pressure builds on his chest, trying to crush his ribcage. It finds the hollow, dark place inside him and fills it up, hot and bright, like love, like come. He tries to make a sound of protest when the paralyzing force on his limbs breaks, and he goes flying backward, hitting Sam in the process and taking him down with him. His body feels hot where it touches Sam's.

Sam catches himself first and helps ease Dean back into a sitting position, but freezes when he looks over at his mother. Dean blinks the spots of out his eyes and follows Sam's gaze. Mary has collapsed down onto her side; she looks thin, like the life has been sucked out of her by the spell. Sam scrambles toward her and grips her shoulders. "Mom?" he asks, frantically.

Mary opens her eyes and blinks up at Sam, and smiles. She whispers Sam’s name, so quiet Dean can barely hear, and then closes her eyes. The air takes on the faint, chill quality of a room filled with spirits. It's quiet, and eventually Dean realizes it's because he's holding his breath: he releases it in a _whoosh_ of air, breaking the artificial hush. He turns his face away as Sam ducks his head into his mother's neck and sobs wrack their way through his too-thin frame, a belated attempt to give them privacy.

Eventually, Sam quiets. Dean looks over his shoulder to see Sam bowed over his mother, one hand spread over her face. When he draws it back Dean sees that her eyelids have been closed, and she looks to be at the best kind of peace a hunter could hope for. Dean slides his eyes back to Sam, who straightens his shoulders from his hunch.

"We're gonna have to light her," Dean says eventually, when Sam doesn't make a move. His voice is quiet, but fills the space between them easily. He feels hyper-aware of Sam’s presence, like the room can only be warm with Sam in sight.

Sam nods and raises his head. His lips are pressed together so hard they've turned pale, and Dean can't quite resist the urge to reach out and touch his shoulder. Sam leans into the touch from a moment and then pushes up from his crouch. "There's salt in your car, right?" he asks, voice hoarse.

"Yeah," Dean answers. He withdraws his hand and clenches it a few times to work out the faint tingle the contact with Sam brought. "You want me to get it?"

Sam turns his head to the side, and the mask he's put over his pain is obvious as it breaks apart for a moment. "Please," he whispers. He turns back to Dean and catches his eyes. "Thank you."

An old, dirty part of Dean curls up under the gaze, trying to draw back, breaking through the happy haze. "Don't thank me," he says. "I couldn't— " His first though when he saw the blood was that it was strangely fitting, for Mary Campbell to die on Dean's hunt, just like Bill died with her. "Don't thank me."

Sam nods, and Dean makes the trip to the car on autopilot, mind whirling with the seemingly endless possibilities spread out before him. He passes the burnt out husk of the Firebird, the sight of it slamming home that Sam is stuck with Dean, now. There's a warm burn spreading itself out from his chest, and he raises one hand to touch the cut Mary made on his skin. Nothing’s there; the symbol drawn in blood has vanished. His shirt is hanging open from where Mary ripped it, but he doesn't feel cold. It's fascinating.

Dean blinks, and when he opens his eyes he's back in the factory. Sam's got a small pyre set up, and he takes the salt and accelerant clutched in Dean’s hands with a murmur of thanks. Sam douses his mother with the salt but freezes when he goes to pour the accelerant on her. Dean watches, then moves forward. "Let me," he murmurs.

Sam blinks and nods, handing over the accelerant without protest. Dean pours it over the body and moves on to the walls around the warehouse, splashing out wide sprays of it, careful to cover the puddles of blood. He's using an oil based accelerant, and it pools beneath the blood, the two looking filthy mixed together. He stops at Sam's side when he's finished, and takes a long moment to take in the shape of Mary's face, iced with a sprinkle of salt.

This is the woman he's blamed for Bill's death. The woman who stole Dean's last safe haven from him and left nothing but a note and the whisper of rumour behind. If ever there was a fitting revenge, this is it. But he feels no vindication. Mary Campbell was a hunter, and without her the world is less safe than it was.

He hands Sam a mini pack of matches, and stands firm at Sam’s side while he lights it and drops it on his mother's chest. The fire spreads quickly, and Dean grabs Sam's arm before it reaches her face and turns them away.

They make their way back to Dean's car at a slow pace, and Dean sits on the trunk before Sam can get any ideas in his head. Sam joins him on the trunk and they watch the fire consume the warehouse. He doesn't look at Sam, but he doesn't have to, to know the other man is crying.

They stay until sirens wail out from the distance, and then get back into Dean's car without even stopping to debate. Sam's hand covers Dean's as he moves his keys to the ignition, and when Dean looks up, Sam's eyes are hard but earnest. "I had a dream of you burning," Sam says, and the eye contact is no longer something to chaff under, no longer something to escape. "That's why we were here— I dreamed of a hunter dying in fire."

Dean sucks in a breath, shocked like a punch to the gut. "You must be kicking yourself for coming," he manages to say past the rock in his throat. His mind is at war with the warmth in his chest, feeling guilty for the closeness he feels.

Sam tilts his head like he's considering Dean's words, but he eventually lets go of Dean's wrist and shakes his head. "No," he says slowly, the words dragged out of him. "I can't," he struggles for a moment and then says, simply, "Mom wasn't like that. She always wanted to go down fighting." Sam smiled, the empty, loving smile of grief. "She's always had a thing about protecting the younger generations of hunters."

There's a low thrum of energy starting up underneath Dean's skin. He looks at Sam, and it calms. He swallows. "I'm sure she did," he says.

He understands the urge, when it comes to Sam. The dark place inside of him has been filled up, and it tells him everything he needs to know; keep Sam safe. Stick together. Fuck the rest.

Dean nods to himself and turns the ignition. They’ve got work to do.

-TBC


End file.
